


Debunk

by Inkblot9



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Bunkers, Confusion, Denial of Feelings, Frustration, Internal Conflict, Lack of Communication, Loss of Trust, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Swearing, Trust Issues, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-08 13:10:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12255039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inkblot9/pseuds/Inkblot9
Summary: If something sounds too good to be true, it probably is.





	Debunk

“Stanford, could you come over here for a second, please?”

“Just a moment, F.” Preoccupied with organizing and reorganizing the bedrock shelves’ contents of notes and specimens, Ford barely heard his assistant’s tense request. Besides, whatever it was that Fiddleford wanted could surely wait until—

“ _Stanford._ ”

Ford knew that tone. That was not F’s “ _gentle, unimportant query_ ” tone. It was far closer to something that implied “ _this is_ not _an option, buddy_ " _._

“Ah…yes, coming.” Ford sealed the compartments containing the more volatile substances and removed his specially-designed six-fingered rubber gloves. Then he made his way into the back of the room, and Fiddleford was right where he expected he would be. The lanky engineer leant on the stone wall of the underground chamber, drumming his fingers against his sides. His KBPS rate, according to Ford’s mental calculations, was by no means an all-time record but still something worth noting.

“What’s on your mind, F?” Stanford questioned as he approached. “Nothing too serious, I hope?”

The flash of eye contact that the blond man offered his research partner was swift and pained. He said nothing.

“Look, if this is about Shif—er, Experiment #210, I promise you that the containment is—”

Ford’s oblivious attempt at reassurance was cut short. His lips were intercepted by an obstacle which he hadn’t felt, or expected to feel, in a good number of years. Fiddleford had abruptly grabbed his old friend’s face in both slender hands and pulled him into an electrifying kiss on the mouth.

It had been so long since Fiddleford had touched him in this way. After college, going their separate ways to pursue their differing scientific interests meant a long-term romance was no longer sustainable. That made enough logical sense in Ford’s head, but still, he had found himself aching when his former lover found someone else with whom to share his life and his bed. He figured the only remedy for such unpleasant emotions was to thrust himself even further into study and solitude. Surely his academic aspirations would take him further than any sort of fleeting human relationship ever could.

That plan had worked just fine until Ford found himself in need of an assistant. The only person he knew to be qualified in the skills required for such ambitious technology was the very man he had fallen for all that time ago. As these past few months had gone by, and he and F had spent more and more time alone together, Stanford had felt the heavy return of feelings he hardly dared acknowledge, let alone speak aloud.

Perhaps this was some sort of dream, or illusion. Perhaps Ford had stumbled into the lair of some creature whose eyes projected one’s hidden-most guilted desire. Perhaps his Muse was attempting to illustrate another dangerous weakness of the fallible human mind.

Regardless of the reason or his mental state, he was definitely feeling the sensation of a romantic kiss. And when at last Fiddleford reared back from the intimate contact, Ford was so overcome with his reeling thoughts and burning face that he could barely manage to formulate a response.

As it so happened, all he managed to choke out in plain speech was, “W-what about your wife?”

“My _wife_ and I haven’t been together for almost a year,” Fiddleford said cooly.

Ford gaped. Why hadn’t he ever said—?

“Sweet Lord, Stanford, have you _seen_ me wearin’ a ring since I’ve been up here? Or have ya been too busy with your _portals_ and _pyramids_ to notice a damn thing past your nose?”

At that, Ford instinctively glanced down to Fiddleford’s left hand. His ring finger was indeed bare—and, upon some rapid recollection of their time in collaboration, it had been for a good while.

Now Fiddleford had begun to pace around the room, his movements erratic with anxious energy and pent-up emotions. “Why d’ya think I agreed t’come all the way out here to bumfuck nowhere and join you on this cockamamie project—right on the _spot_ , no less?!” he exclaimed. “There I was, alone in my garage, dealin’ with a real hellish mess, tinkerin’ around with God knows what…and then the phone rings! The phone rings and it’s my old best friend—my old _partner_ —inviting me to leave my woes behind and join him in something new and exciting. It sounded like all I coulda wanted at a time like that. It sounded almost too good to be true!”

“F-Fiddleford, I…” Stanford twirled his hands around in front of him, grasping at empty nothingness as if he could pluck the perfect words of consolation right out of the the steamy underground air.

“ _No_ , Stanford.” The sharp tone that came from his assistant’s mouth was enough to cause Ford’s own jaw to clamp shut. “I’ve done a helluva lot of listenin’ to you lately, no matter what kinda trouble it’s landed us in. Now I think it’s high time you listen to _me_.”

Ford found himself shrinking back against the opposite wall as Fiddleford continued to harangue. Usually, when Fiddleford was very angry, he became a wild mess of flailing limbs and cacophonous Southern expletives. Now, however, his voice was low and bitter, his gestures stiff and tense. Ford found this uncharacteristic coldness to be a good deal more distressing. He knew how to handle Fiddleford’s brief bursts of anxiety or rage, more or less. This was something completely different, something clearly serious, and it frightened him.

“I wanted nothing more than to trust you, Stanford. I wanted nothing more than to work with you again. To live with you again. We were gonna change the world together—d’you know how _fantastic_ that sounded t’me? D’you know how my heart leapt at yer phone call, how I felt so thrilled, so _alive_ , that I dropped _everything_ to come up to this cursed place…And no matter what sorta hell you put me through, I held on to that feeling.

“You fooled me, Stanford, but even worse than that, I fooled myself. I ignored all the warnin’ signs and instead I held out hope. I managed t’ convince myself that all of this would be worthwhile in the end. That we were partners, that we were equals, that you trusted me, that I could trust _you—_ ”

“Of _course_ we’re partners!” Ford burst out, unable to contain himself any longer. “Of _course_ you can trust me!” A niggling scrap of guilt presented itself as he made that statement, reminding him of how he had concealed the origin of his ideas and the third entity that was present in their execution. He quickly shooed it away. Covering up the existence of his Muse was all for Fiddleford’s own good, for the good of the project.

“We spent all our college years together, Ford. Ya know I’m not stupid, and ya know I know you better than anyone. I _know_ you’ve been hidin’ something from me this whole time. Did you think for a second that whatever discoveries you’d made, I’d love to see ‘em? That if you were in trouble, I’d do anythin’ I could to help you? I guess not; I guess somewhere down th’ line you lost faith in me. I can’t imagine why, but if you ain’t gonna tell me, then I guess I can’t trust you either.”

Fiddleford sighed deeply. He slumped to the floor of the bunker, suddenly appearing weak and exhausted. “All that’s plain to me now is the man I fell in love with is gone. But so help me, I still—I still feel it.” He shuddered, sniffing loudly. “I still love you, whoever the hell it is that you are now. So we’ll forget all this tomorrow, and I’ll stay, and I’ll keep pretending. God knows I don’t got anywhere else to go.”

“Forget?” Ford furrowed his brow for a moment’s thought, until Fiddleford’s meaning struck him like a bullet.

_I’m an idiot! The memory-erasing gun!_

“I thought I ordered you to destroy that machine,” Ford barked.

“Oho, is that how it is? You can have secrets, but I can’t? Your eyes turn yellow at night and yer freaky monsters nearly kill me twice, but I’m not allowed to have the one thing that lets me keep my head? You can _order_ me to destroy my work, but if I so much as _inquire_ about yours, I get nothin’? Hah! Partners, my ass!”

Stanford clenched his white-knuckled fists as he glared back at his assistant. He wasn’t quite sure what it was he was feeling anymore. Anger? Frustration? Betrayal? Remorse?

Whatever it was, it was a distraction from the project, from the mission, from the Grand Unified Theory of Weirdness. Anything that swayed his course of action could not be allowed to persist.

“My apologies, _boss_ ,” Fiddleford spat with contempt after a minute or two of silence. “I had to get that out of my system, but I’ll leave ya to your work now. Don’t you worry none; come tomorrow, this whole discussion won’t be a bother on either of us.”

Thoroughly stunned, Ford found himself staring blankly into space, only jolted back to reality by the harsh slam of a thick steel door. F had gone, presumably back up to the surface to fetch his troubling invention.

For a moment, Ford considered following him. He thought of chasing him, stopping him in his tracks, promising him that things would be different. He thought of taking Fiddleford’s hands in his and slowly, gently soothing all his woes. He thought of telling him, of  _showing_ him, that the man he once loved still lived and was here to stay.

For a brief, traitorous second, his mind was flooded with images of dorm rooms and tabletop games and lips that tasted of tobacco and molasses and the word  _love_ ,  _love_ ,  _love_ …

He shook them all away.

What would be the point? It seemed Fiddleford had made up his mind about what he could and could not trust. And if they both were in fact going to forget this whole conversation by tomorrow, anything Ford could do tonight wouldn’t matter.

He would wrestle that blasted gun out of Fiddleford's hands in the middle of the night and smash it himself if he had to. For now, though, he had other things to think about, and he was frankly tired of fighting.

The appearance of a wispy yellow glow in the corners of his eyes reminded him that at least he still had one friend in this whole operation. A friend who was always bestowing him with knowledge and praise. A friend who was always working to keep him moving in the right direction.

Stanford turned to face the marvels of scientific progress that he had carved into the subterranean stone. He meandered back to the shelf where he had rested his gloves and snapped them back onto his hands.

He had work to do.


End file.
